


Traitor

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood





	Traitor

York, Salisbury and Warwick knelt, heads bowed before their king. They each dared to say nothing, not a word as King Henry looked down upon them from his throne. For once he looked like the mighty king he should have been ; the man he up until that moment had shown not a sign of ever becoming. None could determine what it was, what had triggered this change in their supreme ruler. Was it that the king felt suddenly safe with those he called loyal at his side? Somerset, Northumberland, Tudor, Exeter and of course, Queen Margaret had been whispering in his ear for years, suggesting that York was a traitor. Now he had regained his wits, now he was the strong man. York himself struggled to determine if it was indeed Henry who was strong, or if he showed his strength through the she wolf’s say so. 

No matter, he dare not lift his eyes from the floor. St Albans was a less than distant memory. Though three years had elapsed since it’s bloodshed, none in this room had forgotten nor forgiven the losses. Nor would he think to assume they ever would. Too many a man had lost a friend, a brother or a father at the skirmish. That was not a cost which occurred lightly, was not one anyone would intend to let slip. 

If only King Henry could see, battle had not, had never been his intention. That was why Edward had been at his side. He would never have risked his son, his heir in a battle. Not when the boy had been just thirteen. Yes, he had been tall, muscular, and had the build of any man; he had still been more of a risk than the advantages he had brought with him. Of course, York had assumed that Henry would hear that he had the boy with him on The Great London Road, that this would remove the threat, deter the Lancastrian troops from gathering to fight. It had not, and Henry had himself started the battle. 

York risked a sideways glance, to his left was Salisbury, a look of regret was on his face. Whatever he had been planning, it had failed. Whatever he, Warwick and the other Neville rabble had been planning, it had not come to blossom, let alone fruit. As he looked to his right, seeing the boy he had neglected this entire time, he could not help but think of his wife Cicely as he looked to Edward. He did possess some of her features, her eyes, her nose. With those subtle resemblance's of the wife he missed so much, he could not help but think she may have had some involvement, some knowledge of her meddlesome brother’s intentions. That she could with just will have given prior warning.  
 She could not he thought, she would not have risked this beautiful child that knelt beside him. She would not have. Although Cicely was undeniably a woman of will, a strong minded creature who at times could be difficult to handle, who at times threatened his authority and his manhood, she was in all regards primarily a mother. She would not risk her son, it went against everything she was. However much she may love the power of ruling. She would not conspire with her brother at the risk of her own blood. Unless...

He wiped that thought before it settled. Assisted by Henry’s assured voice, turning deep with authority. Although York could not help but compare, Henry’s voice was not a fraction the deepness of his son’s. Edward had in recent months taken the steps to being a man. He would soon be of age, and had the features of masculinity to accompany such a responsibility. A development York himself was suddenly proud of. 

“You beg my forgiveness, on your knees no less, but then you give me not a reason to grant such forgiveness.” 

“If I were King your grace, and I am not.” The man speaking was Somerset, York recognised his voice instantly. After so many years in royal service, he did not have to look up to recognise a Beaufort. The only household who could have a claim more legitimate than his own to the throne, a family who believed to the fullest that they had rights to be closer to Henry than York himself without the right or evidence to prove it. York inwardly seethed. “I would have each of their heads removed from their bodies. Starting with the youngest.”

“Your grace please.” York found his lips moving unconsciously of his mind. He had not asked them to, had not willed them to. “Please no, not my son. He is but sixteen, a mere child-”

“A child who was old enough to slay men. A child old enough to have voice at council, were he to be invited, a child at sixteen? He is a man and as responsible responsible for his actions as you or I York.” Somerset spat the words, stepping from the dais approaching Edward. York resisted his temptation to move as Somerset lifted the boys chin with force. Blood dripped from Edward’s lip instantly. 

“Beaufort, if you had a heart you might just understand, one is a father before they are ever a noble. I will take the fall for my son.”

“Hear that boy?” Somerset held Edward’s eye as one does a dog. “Papa would give his life to save yours, anything to say about that?”

York breathed as Edward listened to his prayers and said nothing. His head was released from Somerset’s hands as Henry spoke. “Henry, leave the boy, he is not to be touched without my word. That is treason, as much as these men have committed. Unless you want to join them in The Tower I advise you take a-”

York gulped, he saw the look upon Edward’s face too late to stop it. “Treason? I see no treason.” Edward had broken all the rules. Speaking without royal permission, rising to his height - a staggering five feet eight inches - his blue eyes blazing. “For treason to occur their would need to be a King.”

‘How dare you, you disrespectful-” Queen Margaret began to speak, stopping as she looked to her husband. His skin turning red with anger, his knuckles white from gripping the arms of his chair, but he was silent. She rested a hand on his shoulder, gripping gently. This brat would send her husband into catatonia once again if no one intervened. 

“You dare speak for your husband madam? Is he so weak he needs a woman to say his piece? No? Then I challenge our mighty King Henry to say what he wants to be said. Until then I shall not see treason. I shall see nothing more than the right of my father. For I, as heir to my father, the rightful King of England, am above any single man or woman in this room. For this man, this imposter, usurper you see sat in the throne before you, he is nothing more than a puppet, a puppy, a bitch to the men who surround him. He is no more king than a peasant in the street. He is a a fake and he is there only to satisfy the wills of greedy men. You have not more rights to sentence me to death Henry than my dog has to eat from my plate.”

“Edward, have care.” York interrupted, shunned by his son. 

“No papa, no. I do not see why you do not challenge him. Why you let them treat me, treat ma mere, treat yourself like that! They are frauds and cheats and should recognise your authority!”  “Enough!” Henry stood suddenly, knocking the chair upon which he had sat back as he did. He felt dizzy, his head objected, his body objected to the sudden, unwelcome movement. “I have heard enough. My Lord March, I would count your fortunes that I am a patient man and the spare the weak and feeble for you are clearly not of sound mind. York, as for you have a care and learn to control your subjects and offspring, for next time my hand may slip upon a warrant for his head. Do not forget that. All of you, I grant your pardon but not forgiveness. i wish not to see you at court or hear a peep from you or of your name. I shall be watching, be listening and I shall have eyes and ears where you least expect them. One foot out of line from a single one of you or yours and I shall have you hung, drawn and quartered and etiquette be damned! If you want a war Edward, Earl of March, believe me you shall one but not take it lightly. For you cannot dream to win. Do I make myself clear?” Henry assumed that the silent answer to his question was yes, as none responded. He felt satisfied with himself, every face, even those of his most loyal advisors was white and slick with sweat at the sudden and most unpredictable outburst he had displayed. He sat upon his throne, thoroughly exhausted, watching Edward through eyes which were little more than slits. “Leave now. Return to Ludlow and have peace.” 

As they watched Henry became aware of his shaking hands and then his thoughts. Of the fear which was alien to him. He had seen it then, before him, like a message from God. Edward of March, that free willed boy was one he had to watch, of whom he should be weary. He had the strength, the power, the influence to be King. Truth or no, his claim was supposedly good, and his charm and natural authority. How Henry knew that could be persuasive at times of civil unrest. 

Civil unrest he was sure they would soon face. For if he did not declare it, there were men, and women, among him who would prove difficult to dissuade from war.


End file.
